


starlight supernova

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (because he wants to cheer Lizzy up), (because she maybepossiblycouldbe falling in love with him), Drama, F/M, Fluff, Grey being a witty sassy asshole, Humor, Light Angst, Romance, and Lizzy being a wonderful adorable sunflower princess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 12:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Sometimes the princess doesn't always get the prince. Sometimes she gets the jester instead. (Even if this jester wields a sword and can throw a temper tantrum better than anyone else in England.)Or: Charles Grey decides to expand Lady Elizabeth's worldview. Kidnapping is the only solution.





	starlight supernova

A banquet of feastful color sat on a tablecloth of pristine white opulence; silver tableware and clear-cut glasses lined either end of the dining table whilst bouquets of gardenias and roses littered in fashionable form throughout the room. The walls of this grandiose dining hall were a dark cherry red—almost a perverse red, akin to dried blood—and the hand-painted ceiling offered a chandelier so grand it looked rather like an upturned wedding cake. It hung on platinum chains so thin they appeared ready to snap from the weight of all those precious crystals and send the whole gaudy display crashing.

And (as was wont these days) at one of the table sat Charles Grey, master of the castle and wearing an expression of haughty indifference on his handsome face, wineglass in hand.

On the other side, directly across from the sword wielding earl, sat the golden haired Lady Elizabeth Midford. Yet in contrast to the silver earl, her cherubic beauty was been dimmed—she looked pale, with rosy cheeks deprived of color and her cheerful excitability subdued to a melancholy calm.

Stifled resignation, almost.

“Well?” The earl prompts from the other end of the table, fork plunging into the rare beefsteak on his dinner plate. “You don’t plan on starving yourself to death at my dinner table do you?”

Lady Elizabeth’s head snaps up. Her jade eyes are a fog of various emotions but outwardly, she smiles—placid and beautiful and decorously fake. “Of course not, Lord Grey. I thank you for the invitation.”

Grey gives a scoff of cruel disdain, throwing his dinner napkin to the side. The earl has never been fond of false pleasantry. “Your face says otherwise.”

“My face?” One black gloved hand brushes against her cheek. “Is something the matter?”

“You look as if I’ve led you to the chopping block without having called in a French executioner.”

“Oh, an ax would do the job just as well.” She waves off, her voice faint and dim like an afterthought.

Grey hides a smile behind his wine glass as he counts. _Oh Lady Lizzy, you’re as entertaining as ever._ He takes a drink. _And in three…two…one—_

He hears her gasp seconds later, finally registering the impropriety of her slip-up. “I—I meant—do forgive me Lord Grey!” She bites her lip, cheeks flushing crimson. “I didn’t—that is, I am not ungrateful for this fine meal, and what a lovely meal it is!” She quickly glances at the various dishes before her, “however did you manage to get figs at such a time? Do you have private vineyards? It must have been an awful hassle exporting them from South America—“

He goes for the smoking gun. “Has your fiancé’s departure robbed you of all good sense? I would have thought the opposite.” His voice resonates with the same careless apathy he’s spent years cultivating—his ultimate defense. He has no desire for Lady Elizabeth to know the deep, unyielding hatred he now holds toward the sapphire earl—a hatred that is completely irrational considering he’s only ever spoken to the child five or six times—

But his words have the desired effect.

His dinner guest falls silent. One hand comes to curl around her dinner knife, slim fingers hiding deceptive strength. Looking at her now, Grey is pleased by the transformation—one he cannot help but take credit for. Crimson stains her lips and cheeks; the eyes that had been soulless and empty only moments ago spark with life and vitality and beautiful, unrestrained fury. She is, once again, passionate Boudica and golden Hippolyta—a perfect union of spirit and beauty.

He barely registers her rebuke and instead, takes the time to drink Lady Elizabeth in. Her movements are controlled (though not at all subtle) and Grey wonders if that was what the little earl disliked. He seemed so opposed to emotion and good charm that Grey thought his heart an empty cavern, dissolute and cold. It was a wretched thing to do, really; severing an engagement only weeks before the wedding. Did the brat not want to honor his parents last wish? To see him married to a fine woman? Whatever the boy’s reasoning, Grey does not mind reaping the benefits of such a decision.

Marriage in and of itself had never been a priority for him. All women were vapid, shallow, deceitful gypsies who attempted to convey virtue and harlotry at the same time. The only exception Grey took note of was his greatest adversary and most intriguing challenge—the bright, beaming Elizabeth Midford with her childish disposition and woman’s heart. There was nothing about the girl that was uniquely fine-tuned to match his tastes but at the same time, he found himself so utterly entertained that the only other emotion that could capture his ardor would be _enraptured._

That hideously common turn of phrase used by dime novelists when describing lurid romances too false for imagination.

He hated the word. Hated the feelings that could be conveyed. After all, deeper feelings brought forth deeper sentiments and he, Charles Grey, was not prepared to dive head first into such idiotic inclinations.

Shoving aside all such notions of love and marriage (not that he was thinking of _marriage,_ he was a confirmed bachelor for a reason—and he was most definitely _not thinking of marriage_ ), Grey samples some French brie and a few muscat grapes from his vineyard in Alsace. _Ripe for the taking._

“Lord Grey?” Lady Elizabeth’s voice cuts through his revere like the edge of her dueling sword.

He grins. “My lady?”

“I feel as if you’ve neglected my soliloquy in favor of your meal. Though, I cannot blame you. I tend to become loquacious at the worst of times and instead of bringing comfort to those I love, I only succeed in driving them away.” The soft anguish in her voice is mingled with self-deprecating humor and Grey feels white-hot anger burning through him. _No one_ he had long decided had _any_ right to make her feel so inadequate.

_No one._

With great difficulty he manages to swallow his fury for the time being and latch onto the present. “ _Taedium vitae,_ Midford.” Grey returns smoothly. He despises the little earl a little more now. “Your fiancé didn’t want a wife. He wanted a silk doll he could show off every once in a while—one who didn’t need attention or affection because and, do forgive my brutal honesty, he couldn’t feign love even if winged Cupid shot him thrice through the chest with his most potent arrows.”

She tenses. “You’re being _very_ unfair, Lord Grey. Ci— _Earl Phantomhive_ has many redeeming qualities about him.”

Grey doesn’t miss her stumble.

“Come now—just because you’re no longer betrothed doesn’t mean you can’t call him by his Christian name. The boy is your cousin after all.” He’s taunting her now, trying to provoke a reaction—any reaction—that would chase away her melancholy. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Call a tiger a tiger and a brat a bastar—“

“Lord Grey this is _highly_ inappropriate!” Her knife falls onto the table with a carless clatter and Grey _knows_ —he’s pushing Lady Elizabeth to her absolute limit but he thinks it’s about time she finished playing high society coquette. Even now she’s struggling to choose her words carefully when he knows all she wants to do is scream and duel and bleed sun-fire into this world. “Lord Grey, whatever the earl may be to you he is someone very dear to me—and I cannot bear to listen to your remarks for another second more.” Gracefully, and with a touch of defiance, she stands upright with a force that sends her chair skidding back half a foot.

Grey merely raises one inquisitive brow. “Dear god, you’ve gotten _boring_ Midford.” He sighs impatiently, taking a deep drink of Merlot. “Uncomfortably, unbearable boring.”

He slouches, wondering if he was going to die waiting for her to come to her senses.

Elizabeth does little to alleviate his worry. “Perhaps so. Restraint is an elegance few seem to possess but please, do continue with your vituperations.”

“To be perfectly honest, even insulting you is boring.” He continues as if he hadn’t heard her. “You don’t react anymore Midford—you just stand there like an empty-headed flowerpot and take it.” Grey exhales dramatically, heels coming to rest on his dining room table. “What’s that Phantomhive boy done to you anyway? Stolen your spirit? What good is loving someone if they end up destroying you?”

Elizabeth’s eyes flash, as if to say _oh have I?_ “Well then, insult me all you like Lord Grey. I, for one, find your proclamations infantile and above all, _overused._ ” Now _that_ catches Grey’s attention. He watches as her emerald eyes glitter with a fire that is all at once beautiful and satisfyingly familiar. “You think yourself clever utilizing the slander of wittier men but your words lacerate no one and accomplish nothing—save for eradicating the remains of my diminishing interest in you.” She spits back and Grey can practically _feel_ the anger rolling off of her in waves. He’s mildly impressed by the lady’s self-restraint before she raises her chin, defiantly meeting the silver earl’s disinterested gaze. “And love, I will have you know, is _not_ a singular entity. Love is a promise exchanged between two souls—“

He laughs at that—a bitter, cruel laugh. “Well you’ve got a terrible transaction then. You gave him your soul when he’s already sold his to someone else. But if it makes you feel any better, I always thought you’d make a lovelier bride than death.”

“And I always thought you little more than obstreperous.”

Charles grins. “Do you mean to say I’m charming?”

“I meant to say something else entirely but such words would not be appropriate for a lady to use—especially in a social setting.”

“Pretend otherwise.” Grey slouches down in his seat, sloppily taking another sip of wine. “This may be difficult for you to believe—actually, it might be impossible—“ (and though he pretends otherwise, Grey carefully catalogues the way her lips quirk upward, ever so slightly, and how her eyes look just a bit less grave) “but imagine I’m not here and you’re all alone—completely free! Unburdened and unwatched! Say whatever you want—scream it to the ceiling above! You can even sing the opera if you like. I won’t tell the marchioness you sang Carmen’s habanera if _you_ promise not to strip me of my innocence.”

“Why, I can almost believe you’re being sincere when you say such things, Lord Grey.” Elizabeth counters and Grey silently rejoices when he sees that the dull sheen in her eyes has gone—vanished completely—and that her lips are no longer pursed and thin but smiling and full of color. She is standing at the opposite end of his table, dressed all in sapphire, but her smile is delightful and familiar and all at once so new.

She looks a little rebellious, very much mischievous, and a lot beautiful.

With a lazy grin on his mouth, Grey decides he’ll just have to keep her.

No matter what.

“So Midford,” he finishes the last of his wine, “would you like to see how the other half lives?”

An expression of confusion covers her adorable little face before a flash of recognition—and naive curiosity—take its place. “You don’t mean…” her eyes widen and Grey smirks. “ _Lord Grey!_ ” She hisses, “you can’t be _serious._ I’m a _lady_ —I…and you’re her majesty’s _private secretary!_ We can’t afford to be seen _there!_ ”

“Why not? Like you said—you’re a lady without an escort. You can do as you like.” He points to himself. “I’m the queen’s private secretary, I have privileges you couldn’t _dream_ of—and one of them, shockingly enough, allows me to visit as many taverns and bars as I like.”

“But _we_ can’t go to a tavern or a bar!” She protests.

“And why the bloody hell not?”

“Because—the location is _foul_ …and everything you’ve just proposed is highly inappropriate!” Elizabeth huffs indignantly, more embarrassed than angry. “The buildings there are over seventy years old and in desperate need of repair. Mother is hosting a gala in a few weeks for the area. The money will go to building new infrastructure but until then, _we can’t go there._ And—to answer that crude question of ‘why the bloody hell not’—the reason is that the minute we step foot in such an establishment a building tile will fall off the roof and knock you unconscious. And then you’ll bleed _everywhere_ but because that tavern or bar is _completely_ unsanitary you’ll most likely fall ill with some fatal blood poisoning and before you know it, you’ll be disheveled and dying and her majesty will be one butler short and those who love you will be plunged into despair.”

“…So,” he looks up at her through his lashes, “if I died you _would_ mourn me?” 

“Don’t tell me _that’s_ all you understood!”

Grey can’t help it. He bursts out laughing because she just looks so goddamn beautiful with the light rippling down on her golden curls, illuminating her strawberries and cream skin and the fullness of her _very_ attractive—and distracting—chest.

So he decides to provoke her just a little bit further.

“Understanding?” He throws her words back at her. “So we have an _understanding_ now do we? I knew it. You **would** mourn and miss me if I were to die today.” 

“Yes. I would mourn you. Just as I would mourn a Cocker Spaniel being lowered into its grave.”

“Well, a dog is man’s best companion.”

“And a cat can scratch your eyes out.” She rebuffs flatly. “I shan’t go anywhere with you Lord Grey and that’s that. Good day.”

He smirks. “It’s _evening,_ Midford.”

“Well, then—“ she lifts her chin, “good evening.”

“Are you planning on leaving?”

“Indeed I am!” She crosses her arms.

“Then why are you still here?” He grins, insolent and perfectly charming. “Come now Midford, if you truly wanted to be rid of my presence you would have run me through. The fact that you’ve chose not to says something entirely different.” 

“Yes, well—don’t you know? Dying while in the presence of a lady is simply too rude to consider.” Lizzy manages, licking lips Grey thinks would taste cherry sweet.

“Do you think me considerate?” He asks, eyes tracing the hourglass curve of her waist, the fullness of her chest, and the delicate hollow of her snow-pale throat.

“I think you’re perfectly wretched.” Elizabeth smiles, now standing a foot away from where Grey reclined. “I think you’re wretched and I won’t go anywhere with you.”

“Ah, so you won’t leave with me willingly?”

“No.” Lizzy clarifies and Grey nearly laughs out loud, catching the hint of mischief in her voice. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with you _willingly._ ” She emphasizes the last word, eyes bright with false innocence.

 _Oh-ho._ Grey can’t believe it.

Perfect little Elizabeth Midford! _Who would have guessed._

“Then tell me, my lady,” he reaches for her hand (and she willing acquiesces), allowing Grey to lace their fingers together, “what would you say to a kidnapping?”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I allowed you to drag me here.” Lizzy hisses from under her wide-brimmed cloak. “Mother would skin me alive if she found out—“

“Oh stop being such a bore, Midford.” Grey rebukes breezily as he weaves them through a seedy looking tavern with remarkable ease and familiarity. “You think the marchioness expends all her time and energy keeping you in check? If so you’ve got a ego worse than mine.”

“This isn’t a question of pride or vanity and—why would you even _think_ my mother’s ire is a good measure of success in the first place?!”

“I didn’t say _that_ —“ Grey tightens his hold on Lizzy’s hand as they pass by two drunken men whose appearance suggests they were either career criminals or miners who simply forgot how to bathe. “Come on Midford, try to keep up—“

“I would if you’d allowed me to get changed—“

“I told you, I don’t have any dresses hidden in the back of my wardrobe and besides,” he casually wraps one arm around Lizzy’s waist, dragging her forward to sit on the bar stool next to him, “you look fine to me.”

The hood falls from Lizzy’s head and the chained clasp keeping her cloak in place slips past her shoulders, dipping between the swell of her breasts. Elizabeth’s blush turns crimson. “I look like a—a _harlot_ dressed like this!”

Grey shrugs. “If you can wear this to supper then you can wear it going out.”

“I didn’t think we’d leave the security of your dining room!”

“Then you need to think a little more off the cuff, Midford.” Grey smiles, eyes scanning for a bartender to take their orders.

Lizzy squeezes his hand. “What do you think you’re _doing?_ ” Her eyes dart around the amber-lit room, thick with smoke, sweat, and chatter as she tries to make herself look as small as possible.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Grey scoffs. “I’m getting a drink—you want anything?”

“No! I don’t want anything—“

“Ale?”

“No!”

“I’ve heard they’ve got good ale—“

“I don’t care if they have nectar and ambrosia from Dionysus himself!” Lizzy finally snaps, green eyes burning as she glares at him. “You said we were going for a walk—“

“We _did._ ” He grins. “And we wound up at a tavern, who’d have thought?” 

Her fingers dig into his arm and he delights in the feeling. “ _Stop it!_ You’re drawing attention to us—!”

“I’m ordering a drink, Midford—a task that most people perform when they enter a bar. The only thing drawing attention to us is you. Keeping fidgeting and people will think we’ve got a bounty on our heads.”

A busty, dark-haired barmaid appears before Lizzy can protest. “What’ll you have this evening, luv?” Her face is halfway decent, her figure is rather unspeakable, and she’s eyeing Grey with thinly concealed interest that has Lizzy feeling strangely defensive.

“Dunno.” Her insolent companion smirks. “Whaddya recommend?” His refined accent slips as he leans back on the barstool, one hand still firmly wrapped around her waist and Lizzy hates herself for feeling just the tiniest bit pleased.

“Mmh, depends.” The barmaid replies and Lizzy does _not_ miss the way she’s positioned herself, leaning against the damn bar with her eyelashes fluttering and—can’t she just serve the goddamn keg and be done with it? How hard was it to pour ale into a pint and then _move on?_

The more Lizzy ruminates on the subject, the angrier she becomes. It’s irrational—lord knows it’s irrational—but she can’t stand how the dark-haired woman’s looking at Grey like he’s her own personal goldmine because Charles Grey, for all his impulsive actions and hotheaded behavior, is worth so much more than his land and estates. He burns with a fire that rages and seethes beneath moonlight skin and he speaks with all the wit and conviction of a man who would never waver or deviate in his beliefs. He is stubborn, spiteful, violent, and unpredictable.

He is warm, wonderful, fierce, strong and—

Lizzy inhales sharply, eyes flickering back to Grey who is now staring back at her with a mixture of amusement, delight, and that strange, inexplicable emotion she’s only ever dreamed of seeing.

“Charles? Whatever are you looking at me for?” Her voice is unnecessarily breathy and she can feel her cheeks heating up. _Good lord._ She must— _must_ —be ill. “Are you alright?”

“Oh I’m fine,” his voice is rich with suppressed laugher, “but the barmaid’s terrified and I think I’m ready to kiss you, Midford.”

She blinks.

_What?_

No…she couldn’t—she _didn’t_ —

“Oh gracious, don’t tell me I actually said all that _out loud!_ ” Lizzy hisses, looking around and seeing that the barmaid was now studiously avoiding her eye as she stood on the _other side_ of the tavern. A few patrons were smiling at her and two actually raised pints in a toast and Grey—

With parted lips and a hummingbird heart, Lizzy whirls back around and forces her eyes to meet his because she is Elizabeth Midford and she will not shy away from confrontation.

Even if she just wants to bury her head in the sand.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she begins, wondering how on earth she’s going to apologize for behaving like a drunken loon. “For before. I didn’t mean—“

“You didn’t mean what you said?” Grey interrupts and his words instantly send a shiver of ice down Lizzy’s spine. The expression on his face is a mixture of disappointment, hurt, and anger—whether at her or himself she can’t say. “S’fine,” he mumbles in a tone devoid of all humor or indulgent pride, “Didn’t expect you to mean it—clever way of scaring the barmaid, eh?” He tries to chuckle but his voice is laced with a heaviness she can’t quite identify…even if the very sound of it breaks her heart.

“Charles…” She murmurs, hand moving on its own accord to rest on his right shoulder.

“What?” His eyes are still fixed at the wall of liquor in front of them and the fact that he can’t even _look_ at her hurts with more force than it should.

Lizzy moves closer, noticing that his grip on her waist has become loose. For some reason, she doesn’t like that.

“Hold me a little closer?” She whispers, eyes suddenly drown to the dirty tavern floor because she can’t face him after giving a request like _that._

With her cheeks burning crimson, Lizzy completely misses the way Grey stills—how his entire body tenses, his pale eyes suddenly surging with newfound hope as his mouth splits into a wide, cherished grin. By now he’s completely forgotten his pint of ale and has now moved so that he’s facing Lizzy, wrapping botharms around her waist and, with a firm, stubborn tug, presses her to his chest.

“This any better?” He asks and she can feel the reverberations in his chest, can smell coffee and earth and cool, metallic silver. Their faces are centimeters apart and somehow, someway, the world has shrunk to this moment and this moment alone. “Midford?” She can feel his breath against her lips and it does funny things to her heart and were those _butterflies_ in her stomach? “What do you say?” He whispers again and she can’t help it.

She falls into him, completely and wholly when she answers.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely audible but it’s enough.

It’s more than enough for Charles to tilt her head back in swift motion and suddenly—

He’s _kissing_ her and Lizzy’s mind is blank but Grey, who has waited _years_ to hold this sunshine girl in his arms, gives in to the ache that has plagued his heart ever since.

 _Guess I really am in love._ He chuckles at long last.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Was supposed to be all dark and serious. Then Grey opened his big mouth and this became an adventure-comedy-drama. (Could be seen as a sequel to The Faëry Chasm.) 
> 
> Reviews very much appreciated :)


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